Falling Action
by batE
Summary: Need I say it? Evietro. Slash. Evan and Pietro in summer school, where there's much sniping and drama. Literally.
1. One

AN: This isn't Admirer, this makes prolly little sense, and . . . I'm in Jersey as we speak! Beautimous, yes? If you still want to read this, Godspeed. For Chiru, on the occasion of her 15th birthday.  

**One**

It was weird: There were five minutes left before Mr. Jessup would announce all pencils down, this quiz was at an end, submit to your doom, et. Al., and Evan had barely gotten through the first page. There was another page-and-a-half of parabolic hell awaiting him, but the quiz was forgotten for a moment. Evan just could not stop staring at the single, jet black strand mixed improbably into the snowy tendrils that made up Pietro's hair. It seemed to be longer than the hairs around it, almost touching the pale boy's cheek, and it was strangely _wavy_ – the end curling up like an upside-down question mark. Wait – an upside-down question mark? That reminded Evan of Spanish class, something he'd just narrowly managed to pass or he'd have been cooling his heels in summer school for _six hours instead of just four._

The blond kept the wayward hair in his sights, as Pietro, with his head bent over a small notebook, scribbled furiously. Evan noticed that his rival wasn't writing at Quicksilver speed, which, he reasoned, was a good thing, 'cause likely Pietro's pencil would rip right through the paper or it would disintegrate from all the speed and the friction or something, and that would hurt like a bitch, and just why the hell was he worrying about Pietro anyway? Better question: Pietro wasn't even _in his math class, so why the hell was Pietro __in summer school? _

Sadly, Evan had no confusion about his own presence at summer school. It was idiocy, plain and simple. He'd screwed up – big time. Algebra was hardly his favorite class, but he'd managed to score a C-minus. Not honor-roll material, maybe, but a passing grade was a passing grade. His buddy Jason, though, hadn't been so lucky: he'd gone most of the year failing the class, even after his parents had engaged two tutors from the university for him. Jason said he'd rather turn in his board for a pair of freaking roller blades – _pink _ones with glitter tassel – than take the class over again, so summer school seemed the only option for him. 

But it'd be a boring, long summer, all cooped up in a room with bored, disillusioned kids and graphing calculators . . . so Jason had come up with the idea of having Evan go to class _with _him. Kids who had done okay in the class but wanted extra help and a grade boost could attend, and Jason said it'd be immensely cool if Evan signed up, 'cause they could board during lunch and sneak comic books in with their texts, and generally goof off while pretending to give a damn about the subject matter. It really hadn't taken much convincing for Evan. Summer school was lame, but it was easy. It was only for a month, only for a few hours a day, and to sweeten the deal, Jason had offered to swap his prized Baker for Evan's no-name board for a few weeks just so Evan could experience the sensation of practically gliding on air. It seemed a great plan, and Ororo had glowed in delight at the thought of Evan "finally taking initiative to improve on his education." All had been well.

However, with life being what it was, and Jason being what _he was – namely a pathetic loser – things had not gone exactly as planned. Jason had pulled a D out of his ass at the last moment – a passing grade! And that meant all talk of summer school, boarding and everything else went out the window for __him. He and his Baker were off to Surfside and his parents' beach house. Evan had not been so lucky – Ororo wouldn't hear of him backing out of his commitment to the month long class, and his parents had already been told not to expect him in the City for another month, so that left Evan with parabolic equations, ten-minute quizzes and Pietro's weird black hair._

Said hair jerked suddenly out of sight when Pietro looked up quickly, as if sensing he was the object of scrutiny. Evan, startled, quickly dropped his eyes back to the "diagnostic" quiz he was going to fail quite miserably. The equations that had made sense just moments ago looked as if they'd been re-written in Cyrillic. Y equaled X squared? Good for it. Why the hell was he even there? He knew all this stuff . . . or most of it, anyway. And how lame was his life when Maximoff's _hair _was the most interesting part of the day?

The blond cast a perturbed glance at his archenemy and was a bit taken aback to notice the speedster _still_ looking at him. Looking at him, _smiling, _and still writing madly in his little notebook. And now there were _two minutes left in which to finish eight very long algebraic equations. Evan's head dipped dangerously low, his forehead nearly hitting the desk. Yep. Was gonna be a looong summer._

~*~

"You seem a little down, Daniels. Been looking in the mirror again?"

_Here we _go. It was almostthe first thing Pietro had said to him since the session had begun the day before. The first words the speedster had directed to him had come on the first day of class when Pietro had breezed in, looked around, and delivered a half-heartedly sarcastic, "Boring. And Daniels is here – I must be in the right place." 

"Get bent, Maximoff." Evan was hardly in the mood for banter, thus he didn't feel compelled to give his all into volleying insults. They'd gotten their quizzes from the day before back, and he'd gotten a 68. A freaking _D_. He hadn't gotten one D in the entire school year and now he was getting them in freaking _summer school? His aunt would kill him if he ended up getting a lower grade during the summer session than he had during the year. Added to that was the stultifying boredom that seemed to come with hanging around the Mansion during the summer, and the picture of a very disgruntled young skater was complete. Almost everyone had gone home, save for Scott, Rogue, Kurt and some of the new mutants. Scott was always off somewhere doing who knew what . . . Rogue was Rogue . . . Kurt, Evan's former partner in pointless mayhem was now head over heels in love with some chick from __his math class, and the new mutants were . . . young. That left nothing for Evan to do except skateboard awhile, which sucked since he didn't have anyone do it with, hang in his room and stare at the walls . . . and _study. _It was turning out to be the lamest summer he'd had, not counting that unfortunate experience with the Boy Scout camp when he was nine. It had taken __forever for some of those stains to get out of his backpack . . ._

"How can you be depressed? It's summer." Pietro frowned into his notebook, erased something, and began again. Erased again. "Long days, short nights. Ice cream! How can you hate a season where ice cream's everywhere? Get with it, Daniels. It's starting to get _me down."_

"Then move. Nobody asked you to sit at my table anyway." Beneath Pietro's usual sarcasm, Evan detected a solicitous note there, almost like Pietro really cared to know what was bothering him. Evan dismissed it as Pietro attempting to set him up for another wisecrack. "Why the hell are you even here? You don't take Al II."

"It's _summer_," Pietro laid peculiar emphasis on the last word, as if it explained everything. "Quit your bitching. I coulda sat _anywhere_, and let you look like a pathetic lame-ass back here in the corner sitting by yourself. But no . . . figured even _you _should look like you have a friend or two. I'm such a benevolent soul, don'tcha think? I should open my charity. I can see it now . . ." The boy's eyes went dreamy. "The Ministry of the Benevolent Pietro Maximoff. Send checks payable to –"

"Never _mind_." Evan silently acknowledged that he _had _been sitting at a table alone, but only because he barely knew anyone taking the class with him. Many of the girls were sitting together at overcrowded tables, and the few guys there were in the class were stoners, all of them sitting near the windows, tossing lit cigarettes onto the grass each time Mr. Jessup turned his back. Evan figured that by sitting in the back, he could at least sneak his Gameboy in and play Sk8terBoy'03 between relearning functions.

"If I'm depressed, it's because I've gotta sit near _you every day." Evan viciously flipped a page in his textbook. More parabolas! Whee! "Serious, though, __why are you here? You barely even came to _regular _school." _

"Oooh, you got it in one, Daniels. That's why I'm here. Got too many truants, so I have to make up some of the work I missed. Functions covers, like, 15 units of Algebra II, and I missed 14 of 'em." Pietro sounded inordinately proud. "Doesn't matter, I _know _this stuff, but gotta be here or Calc I is out for this fall. Besides, what's not to like – four hours in air conditioning, it's quiet, beats working, Jessup's a joke, and I get to see _you_."

Evan lifted a brow. That was . . . odd. Just the way Pietro had said it was a bit . . . out there. Like seeing him was a _good thing or something. Pietro, apparently reconsidering, amended his words with, "__See you and remind myself that you're too lame to even pass Algebra II. Christ, Daniels, it's the easiest thing in the world . . . even __Todd passed, and he spent most of his time eating the dead bugs on the floor."_

"I _know. _I sat in back of him." Evan felt his stomach flip-flop in remembrance of Todd, his tongue and dead cockroaches. So much for lunch later. "I _did pass. I got a C-minus."_

For the first time since he'd sat down, Pietro actually stopped writing. Looked up at Evan with curious eyes. "Yeah? Well, why the hell are _you _here? Water in your pool too chilly? Nothing good on TV? Too lazy to drag your ass to the movies. Not that there's anything good out."

"I was stupid," Evan muttered, and then grimaced, regretting the words a soon as they left his mouth. _Good going, Ev. Give fricking Maximoff an opening. Now he'll never shut up. _"It's, uh, a long story."

Waiting for the hammer to fall, Evan was mildly surprised when Pietro simply made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat, nodded, and continued writing. The blond squirmed a little, somewhat perturbed at the sudden end to the conversation. Annoying as he was, at least Pietro could hold his interest better than polynomials, though Pietro was just a maddening and difficult to understand.

"Yo, Maximoff . . . what're you writing?" Evan tried to make his voice casual, bored. And he failed quite miserably judging by the flush of Pietro's cheeks and the wary glint in the blue eyes.

"What the fuck do you care, Daniels? Do your _equations. It's enough for your puny brain to handle without worrying about me."_

Pietro's sudden ferocity startled the blond. _Whoa . . . hostile much? Geez! "I was just asking. Get a grip." Reluctantly, Evan turned back to his book, and turned the page to find . . . _inverted _parabolas! Yippee! "We haven't been given an assignment yet, so I __know it's none of this crap."_

Evan wasn't really expecting a response, and had been on his second page of parabolic madness when a soft, "It's a long story," drifted his way. Evan looked up quickly, but Pietro's head was again bent over the book. And much to Evan's inexplicable disappointment, the rogue black strand of hair was nowhere to be seen.

~*~

"Hey, Spykescrew – what's your favorite time of day?"

It was the next morning, during the 15 minutes of quiet time that Mr. Jessup set aside for "reflecting" on the previous day's lesson. Often that time stretched to a half-hour or even longer, as the teacher would get engrossed in something he was doing on his laptop. Didn't matter to Evan – he welcomed the chance to reflect . . . but it was damn sure not on the quadratic formula.

But Pietro was starting the weirdness early.  "My what?" 

"What part of the day's your favorite?" Pietro flicked his thumb over the eraser. "And _don't _say midnight, lame-ass. For something in this . . . thing I'm writing, it has to be pretty light outside. So c'mon  . . . this'll be the last time I ever care about _you_ giving _me the time of day."_

Evan was sure that there was _not a logical explanation to any of this – Pietro's question, Pietro's reply, Pietro's existence. "Then why ask me? Just make whatever it is in the morning."_

"That's an idea."

"Yeah, you're welcome." 

"I didn't say it was a _good _one." But Pietro was already scribbling away, the scratch of the pencil heralding the speedster's descent into whatever world he was creating in that little notebook.

Evan watched the pencil move in oddly graceful swoops, the point never losing contact with the page. Evan thought of his third-grade teacher, Ms. Tavares, who couldn't spell the word assignment correctly, but who'd flunk a kid for bad penmanship. _Woulda had a field day with Maximoff. She woulda either been driven out of her mind or wanted to marry him._

"Nah, Daniels. Morning won't work. It's too . . . _new." Pietro's head jerked up, and rested his chin his hands. "New day, new experiences . . . all of that crap. Too much junk has to be done in the morning – shower, breakfast, gettin' dressed, going to school . . . work, whatever. You got all these expectations in the morning, too . . . that you're gonna have a better day than the one before, that you're gonna do stuff different, take chances, try new things . . . It's just not  . . . dramatic enough." _

Evan's brows nearly met in the middle of his forehead. Maximoff was being halfway philosophical? It was scary, really. Scarier still, Evan was halfway intrigued by Pietro's statement, and halfway inclined to agree it. 

"All right, well . . . how about . . . dusk?"

"Dusk," Pietro repeated faintly. "Why dusk?"

"Well, the day's pretty much done. People coming home from work and school and crap going to dinner, and all they have to _do is get home and eat and talk about what they did 'cause they've already finished _doing _it. You got about a two-hour window before good TV shows come on or you have to do homework or get your clothes together for the next day or think about going to be so you can up for school. Plus, if it ain't raining, there's, like, that cool pink and red light from sunset. It just looks cool. You can't tell me that's not dramatic." _

Pietro considered this. "That's _your favorite time of day?"_

"I . . . guess." Evan looked out the window at the brilliant summer day, the sun lighting stretches of green grass and still trees for miles and miles. Made Evan even crazier being cooped up in a classroom as the sun shone almost mockingly, as if reminding him that _he wasn't out enjoying the rays. "It's not like I really think about it. It just kinda popped into my head."_

"There's a lot of room for it in there." Pietro resumed writing. "Dusk. Everything's all pink and red and it looks cooooool." He mimicked Evan's word in a lisping falsetto. "God, Daniels, if you were a dog, you woulda been put down years ago. Is your brain permanently set on the retarded lamer setting?"

"Shove it up your ass, Maximoff." Evan took the insults in stride, looking pointedly at the moving pencil. "You're writing it down, aren't you?"

The derisive laughter stopped immediately. "Yeah, well . . . it guess it works for what I want." The blue eyes narrowed. "_I woulda thought of it anyway . . . eventually."_

"Then why ask _me_ in the first place?"

The look on Pietro's face was indescribable – somewhere between mortally embarrassed and highly indignant. The speed demon rallied quickly, though, the cool, detached expression he usually wore sliding back into place with almost an audible click. "Just trying to see if you're capable of rational thought and conversation. As usual, you don't disappoint me. Better luck next time."

Evan was quiet. He wasn't fooled; he'd seen the other boy's eyes, saw the twitch at the corners of the thin lips. Pietro could bluster all he wanted. Evan knew he'd won _that _round, and Evan didn't stop smiling until 20 minutes had gone by and Mr. Jessup had shut his laptop and began introducing the listless students to the day's lesson – the wonderful world of hyperbolas.

~*~

"Hey, 'sup Maximoff? What are you –"

Pietro held up his hand in a gesture that either meant "five minutes" or "hi." Evan wasn't sure which. The other teen was writing, as usual, paying zero attention to the world around him, as good as if he'd put a Do Not Disturb sign on his forehead. 

Giving up on the thought that they'd start the day on a civil note, Evan took his seat, slowly unloading his backpack, mind turning over the thoughts he'd had in the past 24 hours. Thoughts about life, and Kurt and love of love . . . his ex-friend Ethan and the  . . . _thing_. Pietro.

The weird thing was, the last two thoughts had been related and it wasn't until that moment that Evan had an idea why. Pietro reminded him a _lot _of Ethan – or should it have been the other way around, since Evan _had _met Pietro first? In any case, his nemesis and his former skating buddy were a lot alike . . . same height . . . same runner's build . . . same sense of humor . . . same type of delicate features that would look out of place on any person _but _them. Ethan was even paler than Pietro, but his hair was the color of the downy fluff on a newborn chick, not snow white. And Ethan had this wide, soft-looking mouth, eyes that were a lighter blue than Pietro's, and a nose that looked liked it had been broken half-a-dozen times.

Ethan had been a mid-year transfer from the unfortunately named Intercourse, Pennsylvania, and hadn't talked to a soul except for the teachers during for his first two months at Bayville. The blond hadn't really paid him much mind until they'd been paired in an assignment in World Cultures, and Ethan let it slip that he was a skater who'd made the final rounds of Tony Hawk's Pro Tour 2003 tryouts –

"Daniels, if you had to choose, what's the freakiest way to die?" 

Evan's eyes shifted to the left. Guess the thing Maximoff had done with his hand had meant "five minutes."  "Dying? What, you mean dying for real?"

"How can you die for _fake_? Try and _think_ a little, Spykey. I'll even give you a head start." Pietro was tapping the end of the pencil against his bottom lip. "Death . . . not something quick like shooting or getting your head chopped off. It's gotta be slow enough so that you know you're dying, but enough time so you could have a conversation."

"Uh . . . if you _know _you're gonna die, why would you want to talk? Is it like a  . . . you know, one of those deathbed confession things?" 

"Maaaybe." Pietro covered his notebook with his arm. "Anyway, I had them trapped in a building, but that's been done, like, fifty billion times –" 

"I suppose . . ." Evan rubbed his forehead. "Though, if it's a haunted building, maybe they'll be scared to death by ghosts or something. That'd be kinda different."

"Nah, too gimmicky. Plus ghosts are lame. Vampires are making a comeback, and vampires wouldn't be hanging around an abandoned building. I need something dramatic .. . but tender."

_What_? Evan was used to their conversations, such as they were, not making sense, but this was starting to break records for incoherence. "Maximoff, what're you ranting about?" Evan scooted his chair back a little. Pietro's face was starting to look like a spaceship ready for launch. "Maximoff?"

"Plus, I keep forgetting that Ken's allergic to dust! And old buildings are full of that shit. Dumb!" Pietro did a furious bout of erasing. "What the hell was I thinking! Now I have to figure out something else . . . dammit!" 

_And we have liftoff. _Mildly alarmed at the shade of red Pietro was turning, but not so concerned – or masochistic – as to continue the conversation . . . or whatever it was. That was another thing Pietro and Ethan had in common, Evan mused – their ability to totally flip out and go the other way on an opinion when someone agreed with their initial point of view.

Like the time Ethan had committed sacrilege by declaring Tony Hawk "way too old" to continue touring. Evan had staunchly disagreed – as long as a guy could do a backwards darkslide without braining himself, he wasn't too old to do jack. But the minute Evan had said that he couldn't imagine Hawk skating on tours for more than another three years, 'cause yeah, he was getting up there a _little, _Ethan had wigged out and had chastised Evan about daring to speak ill about his _idol. _

That's the way usually was with Pietro . . constant frustration, conversations that seemed like more landmines, incidents sometimes weren't entirely unpleasant, though they _should _be. Being stuck at the same table with Pietro should have about as palatable as being dragged naked over a barbed wire, but it wasn't too  . . . bad. The speedy teen was, if nothing else, a source of amusement, even if he didn't make a lot of sense most of the time. And as for the . . . _thing _and Ethan, well, that should have been _more _than unpleasant, really, but it . . . had not been.

"Aha!" Pietro flipped the pencil jauntily and smiled brilliantly at his tablemate. "I've got it. Rock climbing!"

Evan winced. Was that a headache that was beginning to make its painful, annoying presence known behind his eyeballs? "Rock climbing? That's a slow death? You fall, and splat. You're gone. It would be like, 'I have something to tell yoooouuuuuu – splat!'"

Pietro ducked his head, but Evan could see the thin shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "Nice visual, Spyketot. But, ha, check it – they're climbing a rock, and they get to this little plateau that's real unstable. They broke all their gear so they can't escape, and the rock is sloooowly breaking apart. Soon as the ledge goes, _they go, but it'll take, like, 15, 20 minutes or something."_

"Won't one of them have a cellphone? They could call somebody, and they'd have a helicopter up there in two seconds."

"These are nature guys . . . salt of the earth, eat dead shit with their bare hands guys. No cellphones." Pietro rubbed his hands in glee. "Ah, man . . . it's perfect. Daniels, you better cover your eyes . . . I get any more brilliant, I might go supernova."

"Good. Maybe your head'll explode." Headache, nothing. It was a migraine that was taking up residence in the space below Evan's eyebrows. Felt like some of his spikes were pushing their way into his frontal lobe. 

"Maybe . . . but if _I were one of those guys, I wouldn't be __talking. Praying, maybe, but talking, hell no? What normal person would to all that facing death? What the hell are you __writing, Maximoff?"_

"Never said anything about _normal, Daniels." Neatly sidestepping the second question, The speedster had adopted tone of offense at the first. "Whaddaya take me for? One of your no-talent friends? Who, I notice have deserted your pathetic ass." _

Pietro's hair whipped around his face as he made a show of looking around the room. "Poor Daniels! Nobody to show off for . . . not even that stupid hick that's been sniffing around ya most of the year. Kid with the buzz cut and the goofy nose . . . whathisname . . . Ian or something?"

"Ethan." The word stumbled off his tongue, and Evan gripped the edge of the table, sure that he was seconds away from falling off his fricking chair. How did _Pietro _know anything about Ethan? Evan never flattered himself that he or his skating buddies held anything other than a passing, derisive interest for his fleet-footed rival. And _sniffing _around? What the hell was _that _supposed to mean? 

"Everybody's away for the summer." Evan wondered at the sudden frown lining Pietro's forehead. "And Ethan  . . . he transferred outta Bayville at the end of the year. He and his family moved to Iowa, or something." Evan swallowed several times, trying to work some moisture into a mouth that had gone Sahara-dry. "How do you know anything about him?"

"Moved away? Awww. I'm sure you're heartbroken." Pietro rolled the pencil idly over a pencil-smudged page before pinning him with a steel-rod stare. "Or maybe it was the other way around." The speedster gave him a bland smile and returned to his task, apparently not expecting a reply. Probably a good thing, too, because Evan couldn't think of a thing to say.

~*~

It was all about working in pairs the next day. Mr. Jessup, barely looking up for his computer, had directed everyone to check their homework against their neighbors' and begin a discussion on the next section, which tackled the scintillating topic of inverse functions. The class could barely contain its excitement.

Evan came to class not in the mood to talk to anyone, so it was just as well he and Pietro were sitting together. Even if the other teen had _done_ the assignment, which Evan doubted, putting their heads together would have been a bad – possibly fatal idea. All their conversations seemed to become train wrecks – no matter how smooth they might start, they jumped the tracks at some point and everything became a mess.

Pietro looked up then, catching Evan's eye for a second, cocked his head to the side, snickered, and returned to writing.

Evan ignored him. Maximoff was going to be a moron? Par for the course. He had _other _things to keep his mind occupied. Kurt was being annoying. He was acting like the typical in-real-love-for-the-first-time guy – in a perpetual haze over his "Liebchen" Amanda, and, thus, genuinely confused as to why _love wasn't in the air for everyone. Kurt was convinced that the touch of a woman would thaw Wolverine's icy heart. That the Professor needed to get out more, and a shapely redhead (Kurt affirmed that the Prof seemed the type to have a soft spot for redheads) would do the trick. And in a statement that _still _gave Evan convulsions, Kurt had pronounced Ororo "_way_ too hot to not have four hundred guys throwing themselves at her" – _

Evan heard a noise like a mouse choking, and he looked up again. Pietro was chucking quietly behind his hand this time, casting sneaky little glances at him here and there. The blond felt the prickle of spikes just below the skin of his forearms. Maximoff was in a goofball mood, and that could mean bodily harm and/or property damage. In a few moments, Pietro got hold of himself and went back to his work without another word, but Evan was on the defensive now, keeping watch on the other boy from the corner of his eye as his mind drifted back to Kurt.

Crazy in love himself, the furred teen had turned his matchmaking eye to the students. He was sure, he'd told Evan, that Scott was seeing someone. Kurt couldn't offer any substantial proof, but he said there was just something about the way Scott walked nowadays that seemed to indicate there was someone special in his life. Evan had wondered about that. Scott _had been walking a little funny, but it seemed more a gap-legged limp than the smooth stride of a guy who was buoyed by the clouds of love. Besides, Jean was away for the summer, and Rogue was . . . away even when she was _in _the Mansion, so who would Scott be squiring around? That Taryn girl? Didn't seem too likely, but then, who knew with Scott?_

Kurt talked some more romantic nonsense for awhile, going over who among the new mutants were likely to hook up, and whether Mr. McCoy would accept the image inducer the Prof offered him so the long-suffering science teacher could go into the strip clubs in the next town over without causing a riot. Evan had pretended to listen, when Kurt had suddenly rounded on _him_, demanding to know when his "main Spykeman" was going to stop fooling around and get a girlfriend. Kurt had gone through a whole list of girls, many of whom Evan had never heard of, and assured the blond that Amanda would likely have no problem setting him up. Evan had nearly spiked several holes in the wall in perturbation before he was saved by the bell or, more correctly, the ring, as Kurt's _Liebchen had chosen that time to call –_

"Christ! That's it! That's –" Pietro pushed himself back from the table. "That's perfect! It's –" The rest was lost to choking, barely smothered laughter. 

Not that he'd planned on getting any work done, but Pietro was making it appropriately impossible. Evan gave up pretending not to care that his tablemate was having some sort of breakdown. "Maximoff, what the hell is your _problem_?"

Pietro gasped for breath, straightened up some, brushed wisps of hair from his forehead. Looked at Evan with wide, bright eyes. "Oh, Spykebitch, this is too perfect. I finally figured out who I wanna use for this thing, and it's just . . ." His lips gave a telltale tremble, but he was able to keep it under control. "This . . . thing I'm writing –"

"_What are you writing_?"

"– I've been going on and on trying to figure out who the two main characters should be, 'cause, once I figured _that out, I could figure out who else was gonna be in it."_

"You mean you've been spending all this time writing stuff and you didn't even know who it was about?"

Pietro made a face. "Don't mock the creative process, Daniels. I knew it what the storyline was going to be, but I couldn't decide who I was going to base them on. But now I've got it!" He went silent.

Evan waited. One thing about Pietro's "dramatic" pauses was that they were about half a second long. 

Two seconds later: "Reiish and Ken!" This was said with the same glee-filled tone as, "I've won 400 million dollars, and a bevy of video models are coming to draw me an applesauce bath!!!" 

With effort, Evan stifled a groan. Pietro seemed to expect his nemesis to know the names. And sadly, Evan _did recognize them. "The two samurai dudes from Super Block Brawler? You're writing about _video _game characters?" _

Super Block Brawler had been _the game back when they were kids. There was always a line in the arcade, and guys who had the cheat codes did a brisk business within the walls of PS 104. The movie based on the game, however, sucked hard, but Evan had seen it twice anyway – he and Pietro had sneaked into a matinee the first time, and he'd gone again with his parents, who inexplicably loved the movie, though they deemed the game "too violent. _

"Wait, what was the rock thing about again?"

"I told you," Pietro muttered, flipping through pages until he got to a clean sheet. "They _die_ – Ken and Reiish are gonna die on it." 

"There weren't even any rocks in Juniper World . . . how're you gonna have them _die _on one?"

"It's a different scenario than in the game. This is being played out on Earth. Creative license." Pietro looked dreamy. "I needed two guys who used to be friends but then started to really hate each other."

"I thought Ken only _thought_ he hated Reiish because Gaeea gave him the elixir of illusion, and Ken hallucinated that Reiish was the one who killed his sister." Evan rubbed the back of his head. "And Reiish hated Ken 'cause Ken hurt Sensei Ural. And all that went away when Stingray gave him the antidote." 

Pietro looked lost for a moment, and Evan hid a smile. He'd always been more into the game and its background than Pietro, though Pietro tended to win because he cheated like a three-armed poker player.

"Doesn't matter _why _they don't like didn't like each other, just . . . they just do. They're not under the elixir anymore, but they still don't really trust each other. They know it's stupid, but . . . they can't really help it. They keep talking, and it's just like they can't help ragging on each other." Pietro shifted a tad uncomfortably in his seat. "Anyway, I'm gonna have it so that Yarweh is trying to take over the world –"

"Again?"

"Yeah," Pietro grinned, and Evan smiled back. It had been their own private joke way back when. In each incarnation of the game, Yarweh, the half-Giant, half-dragon bad guy, always attempted to conquer some different universe. "You can't have Super Brawler without Yarweh and his half-assed world domination plans. But this time, he's got the Griots helpin' him –"

"What? How? In SBB Ultimate, Yarweh destroyed the Griots' homeworld." Evan shook his head. "Why would they want to turn around and _help him?"_

"I guess . . ." Pietro swirled the tip of the pencil in the front of his hair. "Maybe . . . he's controlling them with Smarty Pants? Remember how freaked the Yarweh was when he found out it evolved and was able to think for itself?"

"Uh, no, Maximoff. Smarty Pants got destroyed at the end of the game in SBB Ultimate, when all the other computers turned against it. SBB The Return didn't even have it, and the movie took place after The Return was released." Evan gnawed his lip, thinking. "What about . . . Yarweh captures their queen again and makes 'em do it, or he'll kill her?"

"Hmmm . . ." Pietro wrote something down, frowned, and then brightened. "I've got it – Yarweh captures the queen, makes her drink that Passion Potion that Yarweh gave Treia in the movie, and the queen falls in love with _Yarweh_, and she orders the Griots to help him."

"Yeeah . . . that might work! Remember in the movie the Griot Elders were trying to get the Queen to marry so that they could have protection? And the Griots don't ever cross their queen." Evan watched Pietro continue to write as they talked, allowing himself to be a little amazed that Pietro could concentrate on talking to him and writing without making too much of a mess of either task. "But why wouldn't Reiish and Ken be with the other Brawlers trying to stop Yarweh and the Griot Queen? Why are you killing _them off? They're the main ones!"_

"They're corny. Both had the same moves, had the same sensei, even wore the same kinda clothes. Dhawim was the coolest, and _he's the one who's going to beat up on Yarweh." Pietro looked grim. "Reiish and Ken go to the rock because they think that's where Yarweh is . . . but it's a trap, and . . ."_

"Wait – that won't work." Evan had forgotten that Dhawim, who was depicted in the game as a floating, laser-beam-shooting spiritual type had been Pietro's favorite character. It had seemed weird to Evan then, because though the powers were cool, Dhawim was kind of lame, and hardly anyone played as him. "Dhawim can read minds, remember? And he's always . . . whaddayacallit, astrally connected to all the Super Brawlers." Evan started. Never thought of it, but if Professor X was a little more tan, had Scott's powers, was covered in tribal markings, could float and wore a loincloth, he and Dhawim could be twins. 

"I know that. So what?"

"Well, so he'd know Ken and Reiish were in trouble, 'cause he'd be inside their heads." Evan moved his textbook aside. "He could send out Loki, who'd be there, in, like two seconds, or Trestle, who could fly there, and save them. There's no way he could _not_ know that they needed help."

Pietro thought this over. Began to speak, but didn't, sudden realization darkening his eyes. "Fuck. _Fuck_. That's right . . . and even if I had them Mind Shield, it wouldn't make any sense, because they'd be too busy worrying about the rock falling to keep it up." He made an agitated motion with his hand. "_Great. I probably won't be able to use him at all then."  
  
_

"Hold up  . . . maybe . . . maybe if you knocked Dhawim out for awhile . . ." Evan saw the blue eyes lose some of their dull cast. "If he were unconscious, the link'd be broken, and he wouldn't know anyone was in trouble . . ."

"Unconscious . . ." Pietro mulled that a moment, moving his pencil in pendulum-like swings through the air. "But he can't just get hit over the head. Too much like a bad anime. Besides, he'd be able to sense if someone were coming up behind him . . ."

The blond kept quiet a minute. "Remember in the movie? That part where Dhawim tried to mind-screw one of Yarweh's clones and Dhawim went nuts and then passed out or something? What if he tries something else . . . like a mind _latch_ . . ."

"Mind latch?" Pietro looked alarmed. "What, to try to find Ken and Reiish?"

"No!" Evan's voice rose excitedly, and several people looked around. "Uh, no . . ." He lowered his voice. "To find out where the _Griot Queen is being held! They already know that she's been kidnapped, but they don't know Yarweh's got a spell on her. So when Dhawim tries to latch her mind, he'll get hit with the same feedback virus that hurt him when he did it with the clones! Bam, he's knocked out for like a day!"_

Pietro didn't take his eyes of Evan as his hand moved fitfully across the page. "Could work." He glanced down, then up at Evan through lowered lashes. "You know Daniels . . . I've gotta say, I never expected this out of you."

"Yeah, well, I'm pretty good at coming up with ideas for stuff. How'd you think I passed English?"

"Nah, I mean, never expected _you to be so pathetic as to know every single thing there is to know about a video game. Jesus, have you ever read a book?" But Pietro was flashing teeth, and for a change, he didn't look like some caged animal ready to strike. It was a real smile. Evan could tell by the way the corners of Pietro's eyes wrinkled, making his eyes look like horizontal slashes of blue in that pale face. _

_Yeah, you're welcome, Pietro. _Evan thought not for the first time that Pietro had one of the nicest smiles he'd ever seen."What are you writing, Maximoff? Is it a comic?"

But Pietro was gone again, shut back up in his little writing world. The period passed without Evan being able to hear so much as a stifled sneeze from the other side of the table.

~****~

Ethan Unger was a good skater. A _really good one. Not as good as the pros, and probably not as good as the bad-asses back in the city, but better than anyone in Bayville, even Evan himself. One of the best Evan had ever seen. So it had baffled Evan that his skating buddies hadn't liked Ethan at all. It really didn't make any sense – Ethan wasn't a braggart, never, to Evan's knowledge, even bring up the Hawk Tour thing, nor was he one of those rich posers who got his parents to buy him a tricked-out board and the latest gear, but couldn't even execute a decent kick flip. Ethan was bona-fide, but from day one, there'd been some sort of weird tension between the lanky blond and the rest of Evan's crew. It had him in an awkward position – his friends were his friends, no doubt, but Ethan was cool, too, and Evan liked hanging out with him . . . despite their sometimes-schizophrenic exchanges and Ethan's tendency to stare at a person with what Evan's mom called "tunnel eyes" – eyes that could see right through a person clear to the other side. _

Evan sat deep in thought on the steps a few yards from the main entrance of the school. It was gonna start raining hard in about three seconds, if the rumbling coming from the flat, gray clouds overhead was any indication. Jean wasn't going to be picking him up for another 20 minutes, and the blond could have used the time to do some routines, but chose to forgo spinning his wheels in the literal sense to spin his wheels in the metaphorical one. Thinking. And stressing himself out even more than functions and graphs were.

Thinking about Ethan was a sure-fire way to do that. He could admit to himself that even though he was gone, presumably for good, the . . . _thing _with Ethan was still nagging at his subconscious. He'd been thinking about it since it had happened, had dreamed about it a couple of times, too. It had freaked him out sufficiently to drive the blond to keep what had happened to himself, but Pietro's sly comments from a couple days back made Evan wonder if maybe other people somehow knew what had gone on with them. 

Evan was reasonably sure Ethan would not have said anything. Evan's other skaterfriends would have bailed on him if they knew. Besides, Ethan had been tight-lipped about the most mundane things . . . no way would he run his mouth of about the . . . the . . . 

The what? _What_? Evan still wasn't sure what to term it. In his mind he called it the . . . _thing. Or the __incident. But what had it been really, if he really wanted to be honest? It wasn't really, y'know, _sex _or anything. At least, not in the way Evan had heard it described for straight and gay people. It wasn't _making out_,  either – what had gone on seemed to go beyond the teenybopper kissing and groping. It had been . . . it was . . . a thing. Just . . . a _thing _that had happened once, hadn't lasted more than five minutes . . . and three months later, was still keeping him up nights. Y'know. A _thing_. One minute, he and Ethan were doing handstands, each of them falling on their asses half a dozen times and razzing on each other, bandying affectionate insults about like badminton shuttlecocks. And the next, they'd been __on each other, kissing. Touching each other. Fondling. Evan wasn't even sure that he'd __moved. Still couldn't be sure that Ethan had, either. It was like putting a lid on a pot . . . one minute the pot was uncovered and the next it __was . . . all the contents within contained, and in danger of boiling over. It had been the same with the __thing. One minute Evan was lying on his back in the grass cracking up at something goofy Ethan had said, and the next, their pants were around their ankles and they were whacking each other off, their tongues down each other's throats._

Evan remembered every detail . . . remembered thinking that Ethan definitely needed to shave, 'cause his stubble was digging into his cheek . . . remembered the spot on his lower back that itched like crazy from the grass rubbing against it. Evan remembered praying that his spikes didn't make a _really _untimely appearance during the . . . festivities . . . and he remembered thinking that jerking off could be a lot less tedious when you had someone to help out . . . never mind that his someone had the same equipment _he _had . . . Evan didn't remember being freaked out by that last realization; everything that Ethan was doing just felt too nice . . . there'd be enough time to worry about what it all meant later.

And there _had _been time – three months of agonizing over an event that took all of five minutes, not counting the cleanup. Odd thing was, Evan was no closer to figuring out what all of it meant than he had been in the minutes after it had all taken place. Was he gay? Did he like guys? Was that why he'd never had a real girlfriend? Was that why Kurt's love talk was bothering him?

The blond just didn't know. Seemed to him that if he _was gay, he would've  known it a long time ago and would've been aroused by guys long before Ethan had ever come into the picture. Evan could not say that he recalled having a thing for any other guy, or wanting to do __anything physical with another boy, ever._

Well . . . there had been that one time at basketball camp that he and a certain silver-haired boy had to share a sleeping bag because Evan's had been left with a lot of other gear in the city. It had been cold that night, and he and Pietro had kind of spooned together for warmth, and there was this nice little nook between Pietro's shoulder and neck that Evan found was a perfect chin rest. Thing was, it was one of Pietro's ticklish spots, and each time Evan had put his chin there, Pietro had wriggled around, parts of him brushing against parts of Evan, and it had felt . . . nice . . . real nice. They'd both kept their hands to themselves and gone to sleep, but, Evan remembered staring at the ticklish area as he drifted to sleep, and that night he dreamed about kissing Pietro there, making him wriggle and squirm against him just as the boy had done in their waking hours. 

Man . . . that had been so long ago, though! They'd just been kids, and Evan had never thought about it, or any other guy . . . 'til Ethan. And Ethan from the beginning had reminded him of Maximoff . . . only without Pietro's speed and grace and style and hair. And without that little half-grin the speed demon loved to flash when he thought he was getting the better of someone. And without the put-downs that nevertheless always seemed to carry a tender undertone. And without sudden bursts of conversation like the one the afternoon about Block Brawlers that reminded Evan that he and Pietro still had the ability to make each other laugh. And without that sensitive spot between his chin and neck. Evan knew the last thing to be especially true; he'd kissed Ethan in that exact spot several times during their short tryst, willing the other teen to jump or squirm, and when he hadn't, Evan was conscious of a deep sense of disappointment – an emotion he'd been hard-pressed to understand. And even now, Evan was reasonably sure he _still _didn't understand . . .

"Fuck." Evan shuddered against the first heavy drops of rain that were painting the sidewalk and pelting the back of his neck. "This sucks." But whether he meant the timing of his remembrances, the timing of his _thing with Ethan, or the timing of the rain, he couldn't say._


	2. Two

**Two **

Mr. Jessup was having entirely _too much fun with his laptop. The teacher had barely acknowledged his students' presence at the start of the next day's class except to gasp out a short assignment before turning his full attention to whatever was flashing on that 17-inch screen before him. Evan wondered if the affable man was downloading porn or something. Didn't seem to Evan like Mr. Jessup would be __laughing so hard if he were, but then again, some of the sex sites he and Kurt had managed to get into __were pretty funny. _

In any event, Evan welcomed the assignment as it would allow him to puzzle out his own series of problems – no factoring or logarithms  involved. Kurt had done it. The fuzzball had finally _done _it – lost his damn mind, that is. The night before, Kurt had waylaid Evan with "wunderbar news!" Amanda's favorite cousin, Sylvia, was coming to Bayville for a visit! And Sylvia was a cutie, their age, and single, and up for a good time, and into guys who like extreme sports, and did Evan see where the German boy was going with this? Yes, _indeedy_! Double-date time, and Kurt would foot the bill for all! Kurt yammered on about how Evan was the first person he thought of shackling – er, introducing – Sylvia to, even before he'd heard about the girl's trip to last year's X-Games and her crush on Dave Mirra.

Evan had been . . . in more a state of shock than anything. He'd been slightly impressed when Kurt whipped out a picture of Sylvia – she was a slightly darker version of Amanda with long braided hair that looked like neat rows of beads – but . . . that was about as far as his enthusiasm had gone. So she'd gone to the X-Games . . . the one held the past summer had been notoriously lame. Even Bucky Lasek had said so, and he never complained about anything. And so she liked Dave Mirra? Great, but he was a fricking _biker for god's sake. _

Still, despite his annoyance, Evan found he hadn't been able to look into Kurt's pleading, gold eyes and say that he wouldn't do it. The skater just stammered out something about Kurt owing him big down the road and stumbled back to his room, falling on top of his bed as if he'd been shot. He'd seen confusion on Kurt's face as he'd walked away; the other teen had really thought Evan would be excited at the prospect of spending a cost-free evening in the company of a pretty girl who might know a thing or two about skating. 

Upon reflection, Evan himself wondered, too, why he wasn't exactly jumping up and down at the idea. As he'd overheard his aunt say once, he _was _at that age when girls and not awesome stunts would be turning his head. Evan guessed that would be accurate – he was nearly 16 after all, and his Auntie O was pretty good at predicting stuff like that. But then . . . that had been before Ethan . . . and the . . . _thing. _

"Shit!"

Pietro's anguished whisper snapped Evan to attention, and he looked up in time to see an almost comically woeful expression on the speedster's face as he held his beloved pencil – now broken into two neat pieces. Pietro's eyes, full of more sorrow than horror, flicked up to meet Evan's briefly before dropping back down to the dismembered implement, apparently at a loss of what to do next. His rival's discomfiture would have usually given the blond a sort of perverse satisfaction, but there was something in Pietro's woebegone expression that strummed the pitying bone in Evan's body. Pietro wasn't the type to have a contingency plan . . . a backup. He just . . . _did _stuff, full-bore, no forethought. It was the way Pietro was made, something ingrained in the very fiber of his being, etc. To that end, Evan was sure the other teen didn't _have another pencil on him, nor did Evan think the white-haired boy would go around to their oh-so-interested classmates and ask to borrow one. Quicksilver around and __steal one, yeah, Pietro would do that. But borrow? Nah. And Evan didn't feel like having papers blown in face by the wind Pietro's speed-running would kick up._

"Here." Evan pushed across the desk just as Pietro had begun writing again with the _nub _of the broken thing. "You'll get splinters and shit writing with that. Just throw it away."

Pietro looked down at the pencil in mild confusion, and then back at the piece he held in his hand, and _then _regarded Evan with shaded eyes. "It was my favorite. I've had it since . . . back when we were at 104. I cheated on about three dozen tests with it. Found it underneath a chair during one of those lame-ass assemblies they have about not bringing guns to school." 

"Um, sorry, man." Evan was a bit taken aback by the sincerity in his rival's voice. Pietro, man of the multi-track mind, kept the _same pencil for nearly __two years? "You can have mine. It's . . . one of my favorites, too, but . . . I can get another."_

Pietro picked up the new pencil and studied it with a critical eye. It was one of those mechanical jobs . . . press down on the eraser and voila! More lead, or whatever in the world that was, appeared. "Gee, thanks, Daniels. This mean we're going steady?"

Great. The sarcasm was back. And it was a sarcasm made a bit insinuating by that looking-up-from-under-his-lashes thing Pietro tended to do that made him look so . . . so . . . Well, Evan wasn't sure _what exactly, but whatever it was, was making him nervous. "Maximoff, just _use _the fucking–"_

"Mr. Daniels, is there a problem?"

Evan jumped at Mr. Jessup's voice, now devoid of all amusement. Maybe whatever site the teacher had been looking at was experiencing server overload. Evan hated when that happened; it always meant he had to restart, and usually someone else would jump on the line before he got things going again.

"No sir." Evan ignored Pietro's teasing grin. "I was, uh, just lending somebody a pencil." Out of the corner of his eye, Evan saw the speedster's grin turn lopsided.

"I see." Mr. Jessup clasped his hands together, his lips flatlining into a grimace. "Maybe you'd also like to lead the class in checking answers for the exercises you've been doing this morning? You can start us off with questions two through five."

"Uh . . . I . . ." Questions two through five? That would be questions two through five that he'd ignored in favor of mooning over Kurt's silliness and his reaction to said silliness, and getting sucked in by Pietro's antics, yes? _Those _questions? Uh-oh. "Um . . ."

"Mr. Daniels?" Jessup's eyebrows disappeared into what little hairline he had. "You _did _complete the assignment, did you not?"

"Well . . ."

"Good!" Mr. Jessup smiled a most unpleasant smile, turning to write something on the chalkboard. "So up to the board with you. Let's see what you came up with."

"I . . . sure." Evan slowly got to his feet, ignoring the stares of his classmates and the evil cackling of one very amused archrival. And the blond had actually thought the day had a chance of _not sucking much. Ha! So much for optimism._

"Daniels." Evan had just turned his back when he heard Pietro's voice float up to him and felt something being slid into his hand. A piece of paper. "You . . . can _have _it."

Evan stared at the sheet and nearly pissed himself. Right there in uncharacteristically neat print, was the entire assignment. Evan couldn't tell right off if the answers were even correct, but the questions had been neatly diagrammed anyway, all steps written out. Evan gaped at the other teen in surprise. When had Pietro done _this_? From the minute they'd sat down, the white head had been bent over the ever-present notebook. And why was Pietro _giving_ it to him? Evan studied the questions . . . maybe all the answers were wrong . . . but even if they were, why wouldn't Maximoff just let him flounder in front of the entire class? It would be a lot more amusing . . . at least with Pietro's little cheat sheet, Evan could put on a convincing show –

"Mr. Daniels?" Mr. Jessup was tapping a chalk cloud onto his dark slacks. "We're waiting . . ."

"Um . . . okay . . ." Evan glanced at Pietro, not sure whether to say something, but Pietro cut him off with a wave of his hand, which quickly turned into a shooing motion in the direction of the blackboard. Evan marched down the aisle like a convicted man, the scratching sound of Pietro putting his pencil to use following him to the board. 

~*~

"A _what_?"

"You heard me, Daniels. Now shut the fuck up."

"You're serious?" Evan blinked several dozen times, but the picture didn't change. Yes, he was awake. Yes, he was in school for another rousing day of summer education. Yes, his greatest foe was sitting across from him, and yes, said foe had just admitted that he was writing . . . a play. A _play. Just went to show, a little judicious whining and some well-placed spikes worked wonders for getting information out of a reluctant source. Plus, Pietro had started asking more weird questions, and this time, Evan didn't give it up without a fight._

"Do _something _halfway useful, would you? Go get hit by a car, die or something. I'm trying to work here."

 "You're reading me wrong, Maximoff. I'm not ragging you. I just . . . you don't seem like . . . um . . ." The blond took a minute to think things through. He was intrigued, but one false move, and everything would collapse on him like a house of cards. "Uh . . . it's a play about Super Block Brawlers?"

Pietro looked up just long enough to glare at Evan before going back to his work. "They're just the characters. It's more a play about life."

"Life." Well, that answered . . . nothing. "Uh . . . whose life? Yarweh's?" 

"_No. _And not _yours, either. Or all these pages would be blank." Pietro's chuckle rang hollow, and after a few more moments of uncomfortable silence, he sighed and laid his pencil – he was still using Evan's ex-favorite – down, and stared into the darker teen's eyes. Didn't blink, didn't fidget, didn't move. Just stared._

Evan tried to meet the assessing gaze with aloofness, but there was something in the white-haired teen's eyes that seemed off somehow. It wasn't a pained look or a contemptuous one or even one of boredom. If Evan had to guess, he'd say it was one of fatigue. Yeah . . . that was it. Pietro just looked very, very tired, as if he'd Quicksilvered himself into a ditch the size of the Grand Canyon and was having trouble finding his way out again.

"All right, Daniels, what are you trying to pull? What's with all the questions?"

Beautiful . . . Pietro smelled a trap, and for once wasn't running his mouth a thousand miles a minute. Evan kept his expression neutral. 

"I should get, like, half the credit. I'm giving you all the good ideas. First 'dusk' and then the whole Ken, Reiish, Yarweh story." Evan wasn't sure why he felt he'd won some sort of moral victory, but it was worth it to see Pietro's lips curl in grudging acknowledgment. Deciding to press his advantage, Evan continued, "So . . . um . . . what else _is in it? Any sword fights?"_

The pencil stopped again. "Any w_hat?"_

"_Sword_ fights. _Action. You know. Remember in the movie where Treia and El Chupparon had that fencing thing? Y'know . . . this play can't be any more suckass than the movie was. Maybe you could sell it. Naw . . . never mind. Thing's probably copyrighted."_

"Swords? Jesus. These are people who can kill people with their bare hands – well most of them can – and you want _swords ? Although . . ." Pietro trailed off, grunted something under his breath. "It's got enough action. It's just a  . . ." The next few words degenerated into mumbles. " . . . okay? NowgetoutofmyfaceI'mbusy!"_

Evan let it go for the moment, and began the tedious task of pretending to care about matrices. Pietro was starting to get edgy, and an edgy speedster was no fun, and kinda dangerous. Besides, Mr. Jessup didn't seem in such a playful mood that day. The teacher had strode in sans laptop, wearing an expression reminiscent of one of those stone monsters that adorned older buildings; all he needed to complete the image was water spouting out of his mouth. Scrawling an assignment on the board, he'd briefly discussed some topics and had stood at the front of the room glaring out the window. 

As he worked on some of the harder questions, Evan's mind circled back to the thoughts that had ushered him into slumber the night before. Ethan and the _thing _was at the forefront of those thoughts, but some Pietro thoughts had crept in, too. 

The day after the  . . . _thing_ happened, Evan had heard through the grapevine that Ethan was going to take sousaphone lessons for marching band and was giving up skateboarding for good. And that had been that. They'd stopped hanging out together, stopped skating together, almost stopped talking. No one in Evan's circle really cared, because they hadn't liked Ethan anyway, but Evan had been stunned at the abrupt end to their contact. The skater figured that maybe the problem was Ethan was kinda freaked out by it, as was he, but still . . . ceasing all contact and giving up skateboarding seemed kind of extreme. 

Not that he had much of a chance to talk to Ethan about it: Evan had seen the boy a handful of times in the hallway, and they always made small-talk, almost entirely about skating, but neither of them had brought up what had happened between. Evan considered himself too much in a state of shock to even start _that _conversation, Ethan never even came close to broaching the subject. So the conversation had never happened, and they talked at each other, never quite meeting the other's eyes, with the thing lying between them like an exploded bomb. The damage had been done, and the subject was dead, made so by a mutual and unspoken agreement by the two blonds that talking about was off-limits now. Bringing it up would have been as pointless as . . . well, as the _thing itself had ultimately been. And nowhere near as satisfying._

But Evan suspected that it wouldn't have been that way if it had been Pietro and him doing  . . . the thing. They would have maybe gone for burgers or something – or maybe attempted to strangle each other afterward, but there would have been _something more. There always was something more with him. With them. There was always something more, and probably always would be. Evan didn't know if it was one of those love-hate things Ororo talked about sometimes. _

He was reasonably sure that he didn't _love Pietro. Evan was also reasonably sure that he wasn't really into guys, the thing notwithstanding. He would have known if he were __that way, by now. Of course, being into guys and being into _Pietro _were two very different things . . . and there were times Evan got a glimpse of the Pietro he once knew, and he felt sad . . . felt like he'd missed out on something. That they both had. _

Take the day before, as a prime example, and Pietro's giving him that deus ex machina in the form of neatly done algebraic equations. All of the questions _had _been correct. Mr. Jessup had even complimented Evan on _his _technique and thoroughness in answering all the problems and held up the work as the way _all the problems should be done. You couldn't have pried the smile off Maximoff's face when Evan returned to his seat, though the blond wasn't sure why Pietro was smiling. If Mr. Jessup had found out he hadn't done the assignment, Evan would have gotten an F for the day . . . and that would not have been a good thing for his summer school average._

So in that respect, Pietro had saved his ass . . . for what, Evan wasn't entirely sure, but once Pietro had stopped grinning, he'd held up the pencil Evan had given him, waved it around like a conductor's baton, and mouthed "Thanks" before busying himself with writing until the end of the period. It had taken Evan almost 20 minutes to pick his jaw up off the floor. Pietro had pulled his fat out of the fire because of a pencil? A pencil?!

"Yo, Pietro . . . don't forget the Griots can't be out in the rain without their bones caving in," Evan whispered at the bent head. "So if Yarweh tries to do his rain dance, they have to be kept in their burrows."

Silence. 

"And, um . . . I was wondering . . . you gonna have a funeral for Reiish and Ken? I got some books on samurai customs and junk if you want to borrow it."

Silence. More scribbling of the pencil. Erasing. More scribbling. Erasing. Annnd _more scribbling. _

Evan stared ahead a few moments more, taking the hint. Why Pietro was being so uncommunicative after having talked his ear off the past week, Evan didn't know. Pietro wasn't given to being moody, really, but there was a first time for everything. Evan uneasily wondered why he even gave a damn about Pietro not listening to him . . . not like he couldn't live without Pietro's chatter. Just made the day a little bit more boring, was all, but it was essential.

Halfway through his first set of problems, a tapping sound caught Evan's attention, and he looked up irritably. _Great. Now Maximoff wants to talk. But Pietro's head was still lowered, and after a minute, Evan noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Swiveling his head slightly, the brown eyes widened as he spotted the lanky figure of Mr. Jessup making its way toward their table, a grim look on his thin face._

_Aw, shit. _"Uh . . . Maximoff . . ." Evan made his voice as soft as he could. "Maximoff . . . you'd better . . ." 

"Do you understand English or what, Daniels? I'm busy?" Pietro's hand moved in ceaseless arcs and swoops and short strokes across the page. "No funeral. They're just gonna die, so forget the book."

"Uh, Maximoff?" The teacher was closing in rapidly. "Cut out what you're doin'. Jessup's –"

"Christ, Daniels, whaddaya want?" Pietro's head snapped up, and he seemed oblivious to the impending danger. "Can't a guy write a stupid sentence without being bothered?"

"Of course one can, Mr. Maximoff. If one is in _English class." A bony hand swooped before Pietro's stunned eyes and grabbed the notebook. "But this is a math class . . . I'll make the assumption that the little y and x on the board alerted you to that?"_

 Mr. Jessup flipped idly through the notebook, and Evan watched Pietro watch the teacher. The pale teen didn't seem to be embarrassed or anxious or anything of the sort, but those blue eyes stayed trained to the little notebook.

"Very interesting, Mr. Maximoff. This doesn't appear to be an essay at all." Jessup squinted at a page. "A series of notes?"

Pietro's eyes didn't move. "It's a play." 

"A _play_. I see. How imaginative. How intriguing. And how inappropriate. It must be very important to you to risk getting an F for the day in this class." 

Mr. Jessup smiled unkindly at Pietro's half-hearted shrug. "Come on, Mr. Maximoff. Take some _pride_ in your work. Your . . . play looks rather lengthy. Perhaps you'd like to do an advance performance for the class?"

Evan saw something dangerous and desperate flash across Pietro's face at those words, and the pale skin seemed to grow the color of spoiled buttermilk. _Shit! He's gonna run for it!_

"I . . . uh . . . no thanks . . ." Pietro didn't make any sudden moves, but he sounded like he was choking on barbed wire.

"No, I think we've all earned a little diversion." Mr. Jessup clapped a hand on Pietro's shoulder, and Evan winced in sympathy as the class turned to stare in their direction. "Now, it's been a little bit since I took that drama class in college, but I think I still have a little bit of the ham in me." The teacher thumbed over a page, and cleared his throat. "All right, how about we start here." He read silently for awhile, and then. "Hmm. How is this name pronounced? Re-YI-shi?"

"Reiish. One syllable." Evan could read the "I'm screwedscrewedscrewed" expression clear as day on the face of his rival.

"Reiish. And who is this other person? Ken-chum? Sounds like an exotic dish."

"Ken-_chun. _And it's  . . . a nickname." Pietro flushed as a few of the girls began to giggle. "It's just Ken. His name is Ken."

Mr. Jessup read for another moment, looked from a spot on the page he was reading, to Pietro and back to the page. "On second thought, Mr. Maximoff, I think you'd best give your _own _reading. It seems it will be more authentic that way."

Pietro's mouth dropped open. "Me?"

"You. Now." Jessup pulled the reluctant Pietro to his feet. "This particular passage interests me a great deal. This is a drama about love?"

_Love play? Maximoff wrote a love play? About Block Brawlers? How far did he go with Yarweh and the Griot Queen? _Evan was a little startled when Pietro's eyes flicked his way. "Something like that."__

"How sweet." There was a world of insincerity packed into those two words. "Well, I suppose you'll need someone to read the part of Reiish. You'll excuse me if I don't volunteer. I was never good at the girl's role." Mr. Jessup's smile was a little sinister. "Can we have a volunteer to help Mr. Maximoff with his performance. Perhaps Ms. Marsh –"

"Reiish is a _guy_." Pietro's turned to Evan, and he smiled brilliantly into the blond's eyes. "Daniels . . . you always played as him. You wanna _be him?"_

"Uh . . ." Evan felt sweat beginning to collect on his brow. They used to kid around and pretend to be the characters back when they were kids, but not in _front _of people for goodness' sakes. And Evan was still a little confused. Jessup had called it a _love play . . . what did Reiish and Ken have to do with love?  _

"By all means, Mr. Daniels . . . read the part of Reiish . . ." A sickly smile stretched Mr. Jessup's cheeks almost to the breaking point. "Gentlemen, the floor is yours."

To work on or to faint on, Evan wasn't sure, but he got up anyway followed Pietro up to the front of the class on surprisingly steady legs, and it wasn't until Pietro had shoved the notebook in his hands that Evan had realized he was, and remembered to be amazingly nervous. 

"Don't muff this, Daniels. We've got an audience," Pietro murmured. "Let's make it good."

Nod, nod. Evan scanned the page, ignoring the panic he felt knotting his stomach. Reiish had, like, two sentences of dialogue, and the other guy was blathering on about something or other. Leave it to Pietro to give himself the best part. That made Evan feel a little better . . . but not much.

"Are you cold?"

Evan wanted to bolt. Were his teeth chattering that much? Damn. "Uh . . . nah, I'm okay . . ." 

"No, that's my _line_, idiot. Keep up, willya?" All this delivered through clenched teeth. Pietro raked a hand through his hair, and began again, "Are  . . . you  . . . cold?" 

Evan scanned the page for Reiish's line. Saw the passage marked "R," and began to speak. "No, I'm hot. I always feel that way around you. Hot and wanting to burn up." _Uh . . . okay. What?  _The blond knew his delivery was clunky, but Jesus, what was Reiish _on talking like this? _Maybe he's delirious or something.__

"Ken-chun, why did you wait until now to tell me?" that was the end of his line, and Evan passed the book back to Pietro, who waved him off. "I know what to say," was the terse explanation, and Evan took the book back without a word.

"Because you wouldn't have cared if I had told you." The speedster delivered the line with closed eyes. "Did you really think I _didn't know what you were doing with Ian?"_

_Ian_?! Waitaminute. There was no _Ian _in Super Block Brawlers. Evan's nose grew warm, and it took a sharp nudge from Pietro's elbow to remind him that it was his turn to read. "Uh . . . that was just a one-time thing. We never even talked about it after. And now he's gone. Iowa, I think." 

Iowa. _Iowa__._

What

The

Fuck?

_Wait a fucking minute! Maximoff knew about Ethan? Maximoff knows about me and Ethan?! _Deep cleansing breath. It was his line again. "B-besides . . . it wouldn't have worked out with me and him. I knew that. It was just a . . ._ thing." __Shit. Shitshitshit. Evan was grateful that he was leaning against the chalkboard because his legs felt like they were going to give way any second.  "Not-nothing serious."_

"I could have told you that, but how did you know? Because he never made you laugh the way I do?" Pietro's eyes were still closed, and Evan envied him. He wished he could read the thing with eyes closed, too. Then he wouldn't have to see all girls staring at them open-mouthed or the guys squirming in their seats or Mr. Jessup looking embalmed. Pietro went on. "Because he only pretended to like the things you liked? Because he acted like it was a curse to touch you after he already _used you? I bet he didn't even kiss you goodbye afterward."_

Evan swallowed air. _He didn't. He just . . . booked. _"No." The blond read the next lines more than once before he managed, in a low voice. "No. It was because  . . . he wasn't you." The blond swallowed hard. His tongue felt like a dead snake. "And I couldn't pretend even during those two minutes he and I were together that he was." _Dammit, Maximoff, it was at least five minutes!  "It wasn't going to be good enough – ever." __What the hell . . . Reiish wants Ken? Maximoff's writing them as gay?_

The skater fought for calm, though he could hear his heart pounding in his ears, maybe everyone could hear it, possibly even see it. Pietro had known about Ethan all along? How? Wasn't possible. Maximoff could have just added in that part to throw him. No way Ethan would have said anything . . . and . . . just how? How did he _know?_

"You fooled me." Pietro opened his eyes, and though his gaze was elsewhere, there was no question as to whom the words were directed. "I used to think you were just dense, Reiish-san, but when I saw you with him, I knew you _knew _what you wanted. And it was me, wasn't it? It was me all along, just like it's been _you  . . . all along. For me."_

Again: What. The. Fuck? _Breathe, Ev, breathe! _Evan peered at the slanted scrawl on the page. _ "I don't know what to say." _That's a freaking understatement. _"Ian was a poor substitute. I didn't think you'd want me, and now I know it's too late. Even now. Too late, Ken-chun. And when this rock collapses, we will die. My only hope now is that the others can stop Yarweh and slay him in our honor."___

"It will be done. Yarweh won't win. He never does. But you are wrong, Reiish.." Pietro began turned his body toward the blond. "There is still one thing we can do before we meet our deaths."

The last word was barely out of his mouth before Pietro leaned maddeningly close, backing Evan up until he was almost flush against the blackboard. Evan could see the other boy's teeth, could feel Pietro's hand come to rest on his collarbone. Evan had no choice but to look into the intense blue of Pietro's eyes. And meeting that gaze, there was no way Evan could hide his thoughts. This wasn't exactly how he'd imagined it would happen, and it was a little scary that he and Pietro were going to have their first real _moment on a classroom floor, but that was life, right? Evan prepared for screams from the girls, threats from the guys, and  . . . something weird from Mr. Jessup. _

Evan steeled himself for the fallout, because Pietro _was gonna kiss him and Evan knew he was going to let him. It was gonna happen right there in the middle of the classroom floor, which was sort of pathetic in a way, but oh, well, such was life, and he should stop him, but he wasn't going to, and Auntie O was definitely getting a phone call that night, and he wasn't confused anymore . . . not really, not looking into _those _eyes . . ._

" . . . Er, gentlemen, thank you." Mr. Jessup's treble stunned them apart, and the wiry teacher looked about to break into a sprint if the two got any closer. "I think we can use our imaginations on what happens, er, next. Let's all give Mr. Maximoff a hand. That was most . . . interesting." He clapped like a seal, bringing his wrists, not his hands together. No one else made a sound. 

Mr. Jessup rummaged into his pocket and drew out a handkerchief, holding it to his shining forehead. "You can go back to your seats. And now . . . back to work. Page 156, problems 2-15." 

Pietro glowered at the teacher for a second, and then with a sideways glance at Evan, grabbed the notebook from his hands and headed back to the table without a word. After a few seconds in which he remembered how to get his legs to work, Evan straggled behind, mostly oblivious to the stares and giggles and blank looks that came at him from either side of the aisle. As Evan reached the table, the speedster looked up and gave him a "thumbs up" – smiling almost guiltily. Evan collapsed into his seat, staring glumly at Pietro's lips, trying shake the feeling that he'd just been cheated out of something important, something special. Still, it was a long time before he could look away. 

~*~

Same stairs, same posture, same gray clouds outside, same threat of rain, different day.

And a different _person _sitting on the bottom-most step_. _Evan stared at the back of Pietro's head, momentarily confused to see the other boy sitting in his usual spot on the steps. One thing about Maximoff was that he didn't hang around. Once school was out, so was the speed demon – likely sitting at home watching Dragonball Z before most kids had cleared the school parking lot. But there he sat, back to the school's entrance looking at nothing in particular. Evan's eyes shifted left to right. There were other exits, plenty of ways he could get around having to pass Pietro. Part of him figured it wouldn't matter anyway. Jessup had given them Fs for the day, and Pietro had stopped writing. They hadn't even breathed in each other's directions for the rest of the period . . . Maximoff probably wouldn't say anything to him now, either.

But then, why was he just sitting there? Quietly. Almost deathly still. Two attributes that were very un-Pietro.

Deciding just not to chance it, Evan began to backtrack into the school, but he hadn't taken three steps before the silvery head lifted, like an animal scenting danger in the air. Pietro looked up and around.  The speedster was backlit against the sun, and Evan was reminded of the painted angels he'd seen as kid on Christmas cards, all shimmering, light hair and with eyes like liquid sky, calm and serene.

Unable to find somewhere else to look, Evan dragged his board to a stop and waited until he was sure Pietro wouldn't speak first._ "You waiting for someone, Maximoff?"_

"I was." The speedster smiled thinly and scratched the back of his neck. "But never mind. I'd get on that moving disgrace you call a mode of transportation and start booking, Daniels. You saw the guys in there . . . I don't think they appreciated our little show. Those types never do . . . and summertime's just right for pounding freaks into the ground."

Evan self-consciously rolled his board a little ways. It was making a weird squealing sound when he rolled a little ways on it, teetering a little, which meant the axle and the wheels likely needed to be replaced. He didn't share Pietro's concerns; the guys in their class weren't going to touch either of them – they didn't give a damn about anyone's strangeness except their own, and most of them were stoned out of their mind. _That was the type the were. They'd all gone home, anyway, breaking for the door as soon as Mr. Jessup had said go. Plus, it'd be likely forgotten by all the next morning anyway – _nothing _really had happened, and there was a test to be taken. Trigonometric identities and the like tended to take all the fun out of even the choicest gossip. Plus, it was summer school . . . there was no one around to tell._

The blond suspected Pietro didn't really believe it either and was just saying that to get a response, and for the life of him, Evan couldn't think of a decent comeback. What _was _there to say, really? I'm sorry we never screwed around 'cause it would've been great? The _thing_ had happened years too late and possibly with the wrong guy? I would've kissed you in front of everybody and not given a damn if I got my ass kicked for it? Knicks were gonna suck again this year? Pietro was expecting him to say_ . . . something ._

"I . . . um . . . I thought the play was cool." It was something _to _say. Not the best thing, and probably not the _right _thing, but Pietro seemed to be expecting something more, and Evan was doing his best to oblige. He saw the pale boy's eyes widen a little, and Evan wondered if what Pietro had wanted to hear was some sort of half-baked denial. He couldn't be entirely sure of the messages he was sending. A little unnerving, that, but Evan was used to it. "But  . . . it sorta sucks that's they find out how they feel about each other, and one of them dies."

It was a long time before Pietro spoke. "That's whole point of the play. All that time they wasted when they could've been . . . something to each other. And by the time they stop screwing around, it's too late. That's the way it goes. Tragedy. You know." Pietro looked thoughtful. "But . . . you got a better idea of how it _could_ end, maybe I'll listen. Maybe I'll even have 'em get off that rock in one piece."

Evan kept his eyes down. It was like getting kicked in the head each time he got glimpses of the Old Pietro. The Pietro who shared a tent with him in basketball camp and could tell the best stories. The Pietro he'd sneak into the arcades with because the white-haired boy knew how to break their favorite games so they could play as long as they wanted on one quarter. The Pietro who got him hooked on spicy foods and pineapple and mushroom pizza. The Pietro who'd nearly squeezed the life out of him when they'd won the state championship . . . _that _Pietro. Evan missed _that_ Pietro.

It was possible – even probable – judging by the events of the week, to say nothing of the speedy mutant's play, that Pietro missed the Old Evan, who was his boon companion, sounding board and partner in nominal "crimes." And maybe Pietro did little things, weird things – like asking him about times of day, and giving Evan his homework to keep him from getting slammed, and smiling the way he did sometimes. Gifting Evan with r_eal smiles . . . the ones that didn't go sour at the ends, the ones that made look like slivers of ocean. Maybe Pietro, too, wondered what could've been . . . what probably would have been if things hadn't happened and gotten them to where they were now: Enemies on two sides of a "war" that was being waged by no one in particular over an issue that didn't really exist, and probably would not for several years, or whenever the Professor felt mankind was ready to learn about the existence of mutants. _

"You know what? Maybe you're right." Evan flipped his skateboard beneath his arm. Better to just walk home today, and not test the wheels – too dangerous. "The way you wrote it is probably better and more realistic than any sugar-coated sappy shit. They're better as what they were. It just . . . makes more sense. You know Reiish and Ken . . . they can't really change. And it'll give the Brawlers even more incentive to kick the hell outta Yarweh. Solidarity, and stuff." 

The blond was serious and sincere, but also knew he wasn't making a bit of sense. It sucked hard, and it was a shame, and maybe it was a waste, but things were the way things were, and it was stupid to think otherwise. Surely Pietro understood that on some level. Maybe Pietro didn't care that the 'Old' Evan had disappeared, but Evan knew he couldn't be satisfied with intermittent appearances of the Pietro he _used to know. That couldn't make a relationship. A warm, familiar, slightly mellowing rivalry, maybe . . . A couple of hot makeout sessions? Maybe.  But likely not something that could be called love, and not likely something that would be worth alienating his friends and family for. _No_. Best thing Evan could figure to do was keep on skating, go out with Kurt and the girls and try to be what everyone thought he was anyway . . . normal, natural skaterpunk with no regrets._

Pietro was still looking at him, his throat working as if he were trying to swallow a mouthful of lead. Evan knew he was going to dream that night about beyond-blue eyes that could see straight through him to the other side and back again. _Round-trip_ tunnel eyes. Pietro _always _had to put a spin on things. "Yeah, well, that's what I thought. Guess you can have this back, then." 

Evan flinched as something dark and slender was hurled his way, and he just managed to catch it before it poked his eye out. It was the pencil he'd given Pietro days before. Looked no real worse for the wear, except the end looked like it'd been chewed on and it was still warm. Like Pietro had kept close hold on it or kept it in his pocket, or something. 

The skater turned the pencil around in his hand, looked up, and Pietro off the steps, halfway across the quad, walking kind of slow – for him. Evan gazed at the retreating form of his rival, the boy's silver strands waving a forlorn farewell like a thousand ghostly fingers. Evan sighed and clutched his recovered pencil like a spear. No regrets, except maybe . . . one. And Evan felt a sinking feeling in his gut as he realized he'd have three more weeks of staring that one regret right in the face.

FIN

AN: Whee! Reviewing is fun! Constructive crit is even more fun!


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